


The deepening blue

by quiettimenotriottime



Series: Sherlock drabbles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 01:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12545392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettimenotriottime/pseuds/quiettimenotriottime
Summary: The young man leapt from the top of the high stone wall bordering the estate and landed with barely more noise than a cat. He crouched in the long grass, still warm with the smell of sunlight. It had been a drowsy afternoon in the height of summer, and as evening had descended it had leant the world a heady sweetness, like burning sugarcane.





	The deepening blue

The young man leapt from the top of the high stone wall bordering the estate and landed with barely more noise than a cat. He crouched in the long grass, still warm with the smell of sunlight. It had been a drowsy afternoon in the height of summer, and as evening had descended it had leant the world a heady sweetness, like burning sugarcane.

The young man listened for movement within the grounds, but there were only animal rustlings and chitterings. The low hoot of a night owl startled him, and he watched it wing its way across the sky, a silver arc through the deepening blue.

The wall which he had clambered over bordered a park in which the family in the house on the hill liked to ramble. It was also ideally situated, close enough to make a casual stroll from the arms of the trees to the low slung servants’ entrance quick and painless.

Dressed in a wig and mobcap, his limber form cleverly disguised by a parlourmaid’s dress and a starched white apron, the young man looked the part of a domestic come to visit her lover under cover of darkness. Indeed, one poor chambermaid was willing to swear blind that he was her sweetheart.

Her name was Molly, and she fancied herself in love with him, though he was an unreachable goal, which she well knew. She was one of only a handful of people within the walls of the house who knew of his nightly sojourns.

The young man knocked at the servants’ door. Having been awaiting his signal, Molly slid the bolt back and stepped aside to allow him entrance. In the yellow glow of her lantern, her face peered at his.

“He’s waiting for you upstairs,” she breathed, pressing a small silver key into his waiting hand. His fingers curled around it and she watched him go, her face crinkling in anxiety.

The young man climbed the back staircase, through the dark echoing corridors, until his steps led him to a door as familiar to him as his own pale hand. He slid into the room like a ghost through a wall, and let the door swing closed behind him.

John had fallen asleep at his desk, waiting for him. The lamplight pooled around him, setting his countenance into strange lines and shadows. The young man pressed a tender kiss into his hair and slid the quill from his lax fingers.

John’s weight was nothing in his arms as he carried him softly to his bed and tucked his sheets around him. As he was setting his wig atop his neatly folded costume, a sound caused him to turn his head towards the bed.

“Sherlock,” John repeated drowsily, his eyes black and heavy lidded in the dim glow of the lamp. Sherlock pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist and crawled under the coverlet. His long body tucked itself around John’s like a mother bird’s wing.

“Stay till morning this time,” John wanted to say. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t. He never did. Night after night he came, like a wandering shade bleeding through the walls and seeping into his bed, but in the morning he had evaporated like smoke. John longed to wake in the morning to Sherlock’s arms about him. It was his most fervent wish.

He drifted into sleep with curls tickling the nape of his neck and warm gusts of breath between his shoulder blades, his feverish wish crowding against his lips.


End file.
